Becoming
by Freckles04
Summary: Alistair, bastard prince and former templar, embarks on a new life as a Grey Warden. Prequel to Catharsis.
1. Chapter 1: Selection

_A/N: The characters and world of Dragon Age belong to BioWare, and I offer that company my deepest thanks for encouraging community creations._

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**Selection**

Alistair stood in front of the raised platform, trying desperately not to fidget. Bouncing from foot to foot or, Maker, shouting "Pick me!", wasn't going to help his cause any. He needed to remain calm and collected, like the full templars standing on either side of him. Ser Kalvin, Ser Eryhn and Ser Talrew waited in their glistening armor, motionless, for the Grey Warden to speak, as impassive as the rock faces that surrounded Redcliffe. That was what a templar should be, or so Alistair was told.

Andraste's ass, who was he kidding. He closed his eyes briefly as disappointment shivered through him. He'd won some of his sparring matches, sure, but he was by no means the best on the field. He was an initiate, not even a true templar--though rumor had it that he would be by the time the week was out. _If_ the Grand Cleric didn't change her mind again, hoping that another year of training might teach him to hold his tongue a bit better. He sighed quietly, resigned to his fate. No, the Grey Warden would choose one of the more seasoned warriors, and Alistair would be left to take his vows and his allotment of lyrium, and become a good little mage hunter as was decided for him long ago.

"Have you made your decision, Duncan?" Knight-Commander Glavin crossed his arms as he regarded the participants. Alistair forced himself not to look at his feet as the senior templar's eyes lingered on him.

"I have, Knight-Commander. Thank you for organizing this tournament that I might see who would be best suited for the Grey Wardens." Duncan's voice was softer than the Knight-Commander's, more fluid due to his Rivaini heritage, perhaps, but no less strong.

"I hope you weren't...disappointed...in the performance of the candidates."

Alistair swallowed as the Knight-Commander's glare intensified. Maker, the look on the man's face when the Grey Warden had suggested he--a lowly initiate--take the field... He groaned, knowing the senior templar would likely banish him to the kitchen, again, for his presumptuous participation, despite it not being his idea at all. The Chantry was like that, he'd discovered: everyone had a place, and Maker spit on them if they stepped beyond it.

"Not at all. The participants conducted themselves as I expected they would, with honor," the Grey Warden said. "I have decided that I will recruit Alistair."

Alistair nodded as disappointment wound through him, then froze. His eyes snapped to the Warden. "Wait...what? Did I hear you right?"

The Knight-Commander's arms fell to his sides in shock. "Duncan, I implore you to reconsider. Alistair is barely fit to be an initiate. He certainly has not earned the honor of becoming a Grey Warden."

"I believe that is something only I can determine, my friend. I have said I will recruit this young man, and I will." Steel entered Duncan's dark eyes at his proclamation. "I came here seeking a warrior of character, and I believe I have found him."

"Absolutely not!"

Alistair turned at the indignant shout from the Grand Cleric. The woman might look old and frail, but he knew from experience she could wield her cane with impunity. She thumped up the steps to join the Knight-Commander and Grey Warden, her body practically vibrating with anger. Odd...Alistair had thought she'd be happy to be rid of him.

"I refuse to allow this...this initiate to be recruited," she fumed. "He is a disgrace to the Chantry! I will not allow his insolence to pollute your order."

"Your Reverence, it is not for you to decide." Duncan's lips curved in a cold smile. "King Maric reaffirmed the Grey Wardens' Right of Conscription, and his son, Cailan, has continued to support it. I hereby invoke that Right and welcome Alistair to the order."

"You--you--"

Alistair held his breath, certain the old harpy was about to have a stroke. Or call for their arrest. She could do that; Alistair had seen it on a handful of occasions when the Chantry had been asked to mediate a dispute. Her face had reddened to match the rust-colored dirt of the tournament ring. All at once, she deflated and shook her head.

"If you must," she said. "I cannot deny you your Right of Conscription." She turned narrowed eyes to Alistair. "Maker watch over you, son. Perhaps the danger you'll face as a Grey Warden will smarten you up. And if I hear you've shared Chantry secrets..."

Alistair swallowed and nodded before turning to Duncan. "You're actually serious?" Part of him thought someone would jump out any minute, declare this whole thing a jest, and send him off to scrub pots. "You want me to be a Warden? But..." He blinked and gave his head a shake. "Why?"

"We can discuss it as we travel," Duncan said, still smiling--but now his expression held a warmth that hadn't been there before. "Go get your things, boy; we leave immediately."

Stunned, Alistair turned and began the trek to the barracks. Him. A Grey Warden. By all the holy...

His steps quickened into a run, and he didn't bother to stifle the triumphant shout that burst forth.

###

The miles fell away beneath their feet. Alistair barely noticed the passing of time, so caught up was he in the joy of being free. For the first time in ten years, he was beyond the yoke of the Chantry, free from disappointed gazes and intolerant sighs. He wanted to kick up his heels and whoop with delight, but he restrained himself. Barely.

As some of his exuberant energy wore away, Alistair noted the lengthening of the shadows. He'd never travelled this way before, but the countryside looked the same as that surrounding Redcliffe. His stomach gurgled, and he hoped the Grey Warden would decide to set up camp soon.

"So, Ser, are we going to Denerim?"

The Grey Warden chuckled. "You may call me Duncan."

"Ser Duncan--"

"No, just Duncan. I'm no knight, believe me." The dark-skinned man cast a smile back at Alistair, which the younger man couldn't help but return. "And yes, we'll be going to the Grey Warden headquarters at the palace in Denerim. There, you'll undergo the Joining."

"The palace?" Alistair closed his eyes briefly. Maker's breath. "Wonderful."

"You have something against the King's quarters?"

"No, no," he said quickly. "Not at all. I'm sure it will be just fine." He patted his stomach as it rumbled again. "Duncan, will we...be stopping soon?"

"Tired already?"

"No! I mean, sort of." He gave the Grey Warden a crooked grin. "It's just that I'm rather hungry. Trail rations don't go very far."

"True enough." Duncan chuckled. "We're nearly to Lothering. We'll stop there for the night. It's another hour, perhaps two. Think you can make it?"

Alistair nodded. "I know I can."

"That's a good lad. Come on now, enough chattering."


	2. Chapter 2: A Warden's Welcome

**A Warden's Welcome**

Lothering was a tiny place, smaller even than the village of Redcliffe. Its two largest buildings were the Chantry on one side of a small bridge, and the tavern on the other. Boisterous conversations and music erupted from behind the inn's closed doors, while the Chantry stood silent, like a vigilant templar. Alistair smiled as they passed the quiet building, eager to experience the revelry of the tavern instead.

"I'll speak with the barkeep to arrange for a room," Duncan said as they paused at the entrance. "Find a seat, if you can, and get yourself a plate of dinner."

"That sounds like an excellent plan."

Duncan swung open the door, and Alistair's smile grew. A real, honest-to-goodness tavern, filled with villagers drinking and celebrating and otherwise making merry. How wonderful it was to be surrounded by noise, for once. To not feel like screaming because the silence was so oppressive.

"You're all right?" Duncan frowned, trying to read the expression on Alistair's face.

"Perfectly all right," the younger man said, and stepped inside.

It was easier than he thought to find an empty seat. He sat at the end of a bench, and the other occupants made way for him good-naturedly. The man sitting closest to him looked Alistair up and down, as if trying to figure out what he was.

"Soldier?" he said finally.

"No." Alistair opened his mouth to say more, but was distracted by an ample female chest intruding on his line of sight. He swallowed past a suddenly tight throat.

"Aye, lad, what can I get you?" The serving girl gave him a wide smile and Alistair found his lips stretched stupidly in return.

"Dinner," he said. "And, er, something to drink?"

"Right, lamb and pea stew it is, and a tankard of ale," she said, sashaying away.

Ale? No, that wasn't a good idea. He'd never had ale, and now wasn't the time to experiment. "Wait..."

"So, if yer not a soldier, why're you wearing armor, eh?" his bench companion asked.

The serving girl slapped a tankard of lukewarm ale on the table with a wink and continued on to another customer. Alistair sniffed at the beverage, then took a sip. Not as bad as he'd feared. They probably watered down the swill to make it last. One tankard surely wouldn't hurt, then.

His eyes darted to the man sitting next to him and Alistair realized he was waiting for an answer. "I'm a Grey Warden," he said, a tingle of pride rippling through him. "Or, I will be soon."

"A Grey Warden, is it?" the man roared. "Well, now, congratulations to you! Emma, another round for the lad, when you can. He's a Grey Warden!"

Alistair's cheeks heated. "Oh, no, that's quite all right..."

"Nonsense. If we can't celebrate that with you, then what can we celebrate?" He stood and clanged his pewter spoon against the tankard to get the rest of the tavern-goers' attention. Alistair groaned and sucked back a mouthful of ale.

"Lads and lasses of Lothering," the villager began, swaying slightly. "We have amongst us tonight an honoured guest! This chap is a new recruit into the Grey Wardens, ready to fight the darkspawn to ensure our safety. Three cheers for him!"

"Maker's breath," Alistair muttered, taking another swig as the room erupted into cheers. He raised a hand and waved self-consciously, barely noticing as Emma replaced his tankard with a full one.

The heat remained in his cheeks as newfound friend resumed his seat. In fact, Alistair's neck and face both felt rather flushed. He drank another mouthful or two of the ale, wishing it was cold. But wet worked...it soothed his dry throat, anyway. He picked up his tankard again and frowned. It was full...again. Wait, how many mugs did that make now? A giggle bubbled out of his chest.

"Making friends already, I see."

Alistair's face split in a grin. "Duncan! Hey! What took you so long?"

"The innkeeper had some interesting news to share, and I--" Duncan's brows drew down. "Maker's breath, are you drunk?"

"No!" Alistair shook his head, but...funny...it felt like it would just keep on shaking, and maybe detach itself from his neck to tumble to the floor. "I am most certainly not drunk." His brow furrowed as he regarded his new village friend. "Am I?"

"Oh, aye, lad, you're definitely drunk." The villager nodded sagely.

"But...I've only had one tankard..."

"Three," the villager corrected.

"Three?" Alistair frowned. "Seriously?"

"You're not much of a drinker, are you, boy?" The villager chuckled. "It takes most men half a dozen mugs to get drunk off of this horse piss."

"Well, I was raised in the Chantry..."

"Aye, that would explain it."

Duncan closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Have you eaten anything yet?"

"Um." Alistair tried to remember, but his thoughts had gotten rather fuzzy. "No?"

Duncan strode over to the serving girl and spoke quietly to her. In moments, a bowl of stew materialized in front of Alistair.

"Eat," Duncan ordered, sliding onto the bench opposite Alistair. "Maybe the food will soak up some of the alcohol. If not, there's the trough outside."

Alistair paused, his spoon partway to his mouth. His mind supplied an image of Duncan forcing his head underwater, and he shuddered. "Right. I will do my utter best to sober up, Duncan. Though...can I just point out that I got drunk accidentally?"

"Just eat. The sooner you're done, the better." Duncan's expression darkened. "We have work to do."

"Work?" Alistair shovelled a spoonful of stew into his mouth and spoke around it. "What kind of work?"

"Grey Warden work. There are reports of darkspawn south of town." The Grey Warden's eyes grew unfocused for a moment. "A good number of them. We need to check it out."

Alistair took a breath, his heart thudding loudly in his chest. "I'll be ready," he said.

Duncan's lips thinned. "I hope so."


	3. Chapter 3: Darkspawn in the Night

**Darkspawn in the Night**

It was surprising how effective adrenaline was at clearing one's head. And thank the Maker for it. If the tension pouring off of the Grey Warden was any indication, Alistair was going to need all of his faculties for this battle. He let the fear come and sharpen his senses, as he'd been taught. Fear was natural, so one might as well use it. Mastering one's emotions in battle gave maleficars one less weapon against a templar.

He frowned. Except he wasn't destined to be fighting apostates anymore, was he? No, his future held much darker, more meaningful battles.

"Some darkspawn can wield magic," Duncan said softly, his eyes on the darkness before them. They'd crouched behind a pair of boulders at the end of a wagon trail, where the two ruts met the more travel-worn highway. Alistair could see nothing in the gloom, but the Grey Warden was focused on it, almost like he could see movement. "They're called emissaries. If you see one as we're fighting, attack it. Your templar skills will be just as useful against darkspawn casters as apostates."

"Understood." Alistair took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

"There's a lad." Duncan clapped a hand on his shoulder. "This won't be like a tourney. These aren't men you'll be facing. Humor and wit won't help you here, just your skill with sword and shield."

"Right." Funny, he didn't think he could make a joke right now if he wanted to.

Duncan squeezed his shoulder through the scale armor. "Let's go."

The Grey Warden crept forward and Alistair followed. He could see no more than a few feet in front of them. The woods around them were silent--no rustling from small creatures, no sleepy birdcalls, nothing. Almost like the forest was holding its breath.

They rounded a corner in the road, and a shadow moved. Duncan leapt forward, his sword and dagger in his hands as though by magic. With two quick strikes, he removed the creature's head from its neck.

And Alistair hadn't even equipped his sword and shield.

"Maker," he breathed. The dead thing…stank. He'd smelled death before, and this wasn't the same. Rancid, yes, but corrupted too. It burned his nostrils and set his stomach to roiling. He couldn't see many details of the thing in the dark, thank the Maker. The smell alone was enough to give him nightmares.

"They'll know we're here now," Duncan said. "Be prepared."

No sooner had the words left the Grey Warden's mouth before half a dozen figures stormed out of the trees, weapons raised. Grunts and inarticulate cries filled the air. Alistair shoved the surprise and the terror aside and charged. He bashed his shield against the nearest target, sending it thundering to the ground. He slashed downward with his sword, finishing it before it could rise again. He spun, lifting his shield and angling it so the edge caught the next darkspawn across the face. It froze, stunned. Alistair ran it through, then pushed it off his blade with his shield.

"Emissary!" Duncan shouted.

Alistair looked up, his eyes drawn to the colorful flashes that indicated magic. A darkspawn took advantage of his distraction, knocking him back with its own shield. Alistair staggered and shook his head, trying to clear his vision. He raised his shield in time to block a sword, and the impact shot along his arm. He shouted his fury at the thing that had attacked him and, sweeping his sword in an arc, decapitated it.

He rushed the emissary, wincing as electricity sizzled through him. He gritted his teeth and summoned the abilities he'd spent the last decade perfecting. They responded eagerly, easily. He felt the emissary's mana disperse as he struck it once, twice. It screamed. The air tingled as it began to cast another spell. Alistair shoved his shield against it, interrupting its attempt, then sank his sword into its gut. The thing leaned forward, and Alistair found himself staring into its black, dead eyes. With a cry, he disengaged himself from it and lurched backwards. The emissary toppled to the ground, motionless.

Something landed on his shoulder, and Alistair spun, his sword and shield at the ready. Duncan stepped back, his hands raised in a placating gesture. "It's over," he assured the younger man.

"Over?" Alistair blinked. He cast his gaze around the area, but he could see little. "You're sure?"

"I'm sure." Duncan placed a hand on Alistair's sword arm and pressed it down gently. "You did good, lad."

Without a word, Alistair led his sword and shield clatter to the ground. He stumbled away, bent at the waist, and vomited.

#

The morning sun brought with it additional evidence of the darkspawn's malignancy. Occasionally, as Alistair and the Grey Warden walked, they would come across a black trail etched into the land like a knife wound. Invariably, Duncan would stop and survey the damage for a moment, before rising and pushing onward, faster than before.

Alistair's hands itched to hold his sword and shield, but Duncan assured him there were no darkspawn about, not any more. How the Grey Warden knew, Alistair had no idea. They shared few words as they walked. The joyous feeling of freedom that had buoyed Alistair's mood the day before had dissipated entirely, replaced instead with fatigue, trepidation, and disgust. Despite the brightness of the day, every time Alistair closed his eyes he saw again the emissary's ugly, twisted face inches from his own.

Maybe this whole Grey Warden thing was a mistake.

"How many darkspawn are there?" The question tumbled from his mouth, unbidden, and hung in the silence of the road.

"No one knows for certain," Duncan replied after a moment. "Tens of thousands, perhaps. They have held the Deep Roads in the dwarven kingdom for centuries, since before the last Blight."

"So they could be walking around beneath us? Right now?" Alistair eyed the weathered grass. "Creepy."

"They're not likely to burst to the surface." Duncan frowned and cast a glance to the south, then shook his head and continued on. "We see infrequent raids, like at the one we defeated last night. But the darkspawn rarely appear in any numbers unless a Blight occurs."

"That's when they discover an Old God, right? One of the Tevinter Imperium's dragon deities that the Maker imprisoned underground?" Alistair shrugged at Duncan's raised eyebrow. "I did more in the Chantry than learn to swing a sword, you know."

"Essentially, yes. That's a Blight. The darkspawn are compelled to search for the Old Gods. When they find one, their touch taints it, and it becomes an archdemon. The archdemon organizes the darkspawn into a horde, which then attacks the surface." Duncan stopped and looked to the south again.

Alistair paused too, his eyes travelling from Duncan's frowning face to the southern horizon. "You're making me nervous, Duncan," he said finally.

"What's that?" Duncan glanced at Alistair, then shook his head with a rueful smile. "Sorry. I've been trying to decide if my senses are deceiving me."

"Deceiving you how?" Alistair squinted through the trees. "I don't see anything."

"All Grey Wardens can sense darkspawn. And I'm sensing…" His eyes grew unfocused again. "A lot of them. Enough that I can feel their taint even though they're far to the south." His gaze cleared. "I'm not sure what it means, but we need to get to Denerim as soon as possible. I'll need to arrange for a scouting mission so we can discover the meaning here. That many darkspawn…"

"You don't think it's…it's a Blight, do you?"

The Grey Warden shook his head. "No. There would be other signs. Come, we haven't the time to waste standing about talking."


	4. Chapter 4: Dark Decisions

**Dark Decisions**

They came across the burning farmhouse during their fourth afternoon on the road, a day from Denerim's gates. Black smoke billowed into the sky, dissipating into a greyish haze that dimmed the sun's light. Alistair tensed as he heard a woman crying and men shouting, and his mind painted an image of what was happening out of sight. A child's wail warbled above the roar of the flames. He reached for his sword, but Duncan's hand stayed his.

"There are no darkspawn here," the Grey Warden said quietly.

"But--" Alistair turned wide eyes to look at the older man. "We can't just walk by and do nothing!"

Duncan took a deep breath, his face somber as he watched the smoke. "We can. And we will."

"No. That isn't right." Alistair shook off the Warden's hand. "That family is in trouble from--from bandits, maybe. We need to help."

"It is not our job to police Ferelden," Duncan stated. His face had grown hard, unyielding. "We must reserve our efforts to battle the darkspawn."

"We can help," Alistair ground out. His hands clenched at his sides.

"And what if we fall here?" Duncan said. "Who would carry the news to the Grey Wardens in Denerim of the darkspawn amassing to the south?" He looked at the farmhouse again and his firm expression faltered for a moment. "Our duty is to protect humanity from the darkspawn. Not from each other." He strode ahead.

Alistair watched his retreating back, then eyed the farmhouse again. "This is wrong," he shouted after the Grey Warden.

Duncan stopped. "There is very little in this world that is purely right or purely wrong, Alistair. This is necessary. No more, no less." He gestured at the younger man. "Now, come. I want to get closer to Denerim before we set up camp for the eve."

Alistair turned back to the farmhouse. He could go off by himself, see what he could do to help. He didn't need Duncan's assistance. He shifted in that direction.

"Don't." Duncan's voice was laced with warning and command. "Alistair, you are a Grey Warden. Fall in."

He closed his eyes, his jaw tensed. Then, with a muttered, "Maker's breath," he fell into line behind Duncan.

#

Alistair sat before the small campfire, tossing bits of grass into the flames. The dry strands glowed incandescently for the briefest of instants before vanishing. The repetitive motion kept his dark thoughts at bay, for a time. Duncan sat silently on the other side of the fire, his face obscured by sparks.

"Is this what I have to look forward to?" Alistair braced his arm on an upraised knee and regarded the older man. "A lifetime of difficult decisions that I can't agree with?"

"You would have had that regardless, Alistair. Life is filled with difficult decisions." Duncan gave him a rueful smile. "Do you think being a mage hunter would have been easier? What if you came across an apostate who was married, with children, living a life that harmed no one? You would still be required to capture that person, or kill him. So says the Chantry."

"I--" Alistair pressed his lips together. "That's different."

"How so? Either you choose to spare the mage and betray your vows, or kill the mage and thereby destroy his family." Duncan shook his head. "Our purpose goes beyond one family, or one village, or even one nation. We can't forget that. We can't allow ourselves to be distracted."

The child's cry reverberated through Alistair's mind, and he threw the remainder of the handful of grass into the flames. "I just don't understand how you can separate yourself like that."

"We do, because we must." Duncan sighed. "You'll understand more, after the Joining."

"Yes, the mysterious Joining." Alistair brushed a hand over his hair. "Are you going to tell me any more about that?"

"No."

"I didn't think so. Not that it matters." He tilted his head back to watch the sparks dance into the darkness arching over them. "Anything is better than being stuck in that Chantry another day."

"Joining the Chantry wasn't your idea?"

Alistair snorted. "I was ten. What do you think?"

He leaned back on his elbows, his eyes fixed on the heavens. Duncan remained silent, obviously putting the option to speak more of his childhood, or not, firmly in Alistair's hands. He took a deep breath. Tomorrow, they would reach Denerim. More significantly, they would reach the palace. The chances of running into...him...were slim, but not non-existent. If Duncan didn't know...it could be awkward all around.

Maker's breath. When would his blood stop haunting him?

"I'm a bastard," he said, his gaze on the sky. "Arl Eamon of Redcliffe took me in and raised me until I was ten, then I was sent to the Chantry to be educated as a templar."

"I see."

"I doubt that," Alistair muttered. He took another deep breath and forged onward. "Eamon isn't my father. King Maric is...was. Cailan is my half-brother."

"I was wondering when you were going to tell me," Duncan said, a hint of amusement in his voice.

"Wait--you knew?" Alistair shot upright.

"I considered your father a friend," Duncan said with a shrug. "Your resemblance to him, and your brother, is remarkable."

"Wait. Just...wait." Alistair rubbed his forehead. "You knew, and you still recruited me?"

Duncan arched a brow. "Was I incorrect in assuming that you did not appreciate the Chantry life?"

"What? No! I hated it there. I never wanted to be a templar."

The Grey Warden inclined his head. "And what is it that you do want?"

"I--" Alistair blinked. What _did_ he want? No one had ever asked him that before. All of his decisions had been made for him, starting right at his birth, when it was decided that he would be raised by Arl Eamon.

Certainty bolted through him and he averted his eyes so Duncan wouldn't see the telltale glimmer in them. What he wanted was a home. A place he belonged. Even...a family.

"I don't know," he lied.

Duncan smiled. "You've some time yet to figure it out. Go on, off to bed. I'll take first watch."

Alistair lay on his bedroll for some time, awake, unable to sleep even with the soothing rhythmic crackle of the fire. For the first time in his life, he actually found himself looking forward to the future. Despite the hints of darkness that came with being a Grey Warden, his life was looking much brighter than it ever had.

#

Denerim…bustled.

It seemed an inadequate description, but it was the only one Alistair's stunned mind could come up with. Maker, the mass of people…he'd never seen so many gathered in one place. Sure, there had been the summer festivals at Redcliffe, epitomized by rowdiness he'd observed from afar, but even those celebrations hadn't placed so many people in one location. Beyond the city's gates was a new world, a collection of colors and textures; a conglomeration of humans, elves, even dwarves going about their mundane lives. And the noise! He'd found the silence of the Chantry horrible, but this unrelenting noise was nearly as unbearable.

His steps faltered as Duncan pressed into the crowd, but he gathered his courage and kept up with the Grey Warden before he could lose sight of the older man. Duncan wove through the people in the street with an ease borne of long practice, and Alistair wondered if the man was a native of Denerim. In fact, he knew nothing of the Grey Warden, did he? Other than his name and his place within Ferelden's order.

The crowds thinned somewhat as they approached the Palace District. Fewer people milled in the streets and they seemed more…refined. Less loud hawking of wares, for example, and the goods at the infrequent merchants' stalls seemed more expensive.

The closer they got to the palace, the tighter Alistair's stomach became. What if they saw…him? The King? He thought Cailan knew of his existence, though he wasn't sure. There had been that one visit to Redcliffe about fifteen years ago now, where Alistair had greeted his half-brother only to be dismissed in favor of the armory. But then, it wasn't likely that a teenager would have much to say to a five-year-old, would he? Certainly not any kind of deep or meaningful conversation, and an acknowledgement of Alistair as his brother would have fallen into that category. He took a deep breath and tried to push the hurt aside, but, like a festering wound, it wasn't so easy to ignore. It ached. The sense of what-if, if-only, and maybe-if-I.

_What if I'd been raised here instead of Redcliffe? _

_If only I'd had a chance to know my brother and father. _

_Maybe if I'd been better…_

No, that was foolishness. He didn't get a say in his life, remember? Not then, not now, and probably not ever.

He was slightly proud that he only fumbled one step as the palace came into view. He cleared his throat, unsure of how to word his request. "Uh, Duncan?"

"What is it?"

"You're not going to tell anyone, are you?" Alistair said, his eyes flicking from the Warden's face up to the spires of the palace. "About…about me, I mean."

Duncan's lips curved. "Do not worry, Alistair. I don't think anyone else needs to know."

Alistair blew out a relieved breath. "Oh, good." His mouth twitched. "And…thank you. For not treating me differently."

The older man inclined his head. "Come. We've much to do before the Joining this eve."

"And, let me guess: you're still not going to tell me anything about that."

Duncan's only response was a silent and somewhat sad smile.


	5. Chapter 5: Bastard, PrinceGrey Warden

**Bastard, Prince...Grey Warden**

Alistair stood with two other recruits in the compound's courtyard, trying hard not to look as nervous as he felt. The others--both men, older than him--fared no better. In fact, one of them looked downright ill. Alistair hoped his face wasn't as green, though Duncan's somber, sad mien wasn't helping any. Whatever this Joining was, it was big. And possibly scary.

Better than the Chantry, he reminded himself. Better than being whacked by canes or having his ear pulled or being ordered to scrub pots--again--because he'd refused to back down when one of the other initiates insulted him.

Duncan shared a glance with the Orlesian Warden at his side. Riordan, his name was; dark-haired, fair-skinned, with piercingly light eyes that seemed to look directly into the core of the person he spoke to. He was the only Warden that Alistair had met, other than Duncan. It was almost as if the others were keeping their distance, for some reason. Surely there had to be more in this huge compound than just Riordan. He didn't even live here.

Riordan gave Duncan a nod and the dark-skinned man turned to the recruits, his face grave. "It was during the First Blight that the Grey Wardens were founded, when humanity stood on the verge of annihilation. It was then that men first drank of darkspawn blood, and mastered their taint."

Alistair swallowed. He'd wondered why Duncan had stopped to gather vials of blood from the darkspawn they'd killed outside of Lothering. Now he knew. And wished he didn't.

"We take the taint into us so that we become immune to its effects. It is the source of our power, and our victory," Duncan continued.

"But...the taint sickens people," one of the other recruits stammered. Garth, a knight from Highever, if Alistair remembered correctly.

"The Joining is different," Riordan said. "If you survive--"

"Wait. If we survive?" Garth fell back a step, his eyes darting about wildly as if he was searching for an escape.

"Not everyone who drinks the blood will live," Duncan said, his voice low. "It is the price we pay to become what we are. But none of you would have been chosen had we not believed you had a chance to survive."

"Maker's breath." Alistair closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, Duncan's dark gaze rested heavily on him. Better than the Chantry. Better than the Chantry. By Andraste, even dying would be better than being in the Chantry. Not that he was in any rush to rejoin the Maker...

He took a deep breath and nodded. "I'm ready."

"Aye. Let's be done with it," the third recruit, Lorne, stated.

Duncan's lips curved slightly, a ghost of a smile that was gone almost before Alistair saw it. "We speak only a few words before the Joining, but they have been said since the first. Riordan?"

When Riordan spoke, his rough, accented voice was soft, with a lilting cadence that burned the words into Alistair's soul. He dipped his head, because it seemed like the right thing to do.

"Join us, brothers and sisters," Riordan intoned. "Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice shall not be forgotten. And that, one day, we shall join you."

"Garth, step forward." Duncan held out the chalice. After a moment's hesitation, the recruit took it and sipped the vile concoction. Duncan retrieved the cup and stepped back.

Alistair held his breath, unsure of what to expect.

Garth blinked, then frowned, as if puzzled that nothing was happening. Suddenly he bent at the waist and toppled to the ground, shuddering. His mouth opened in a silent scream, and his eyes--

Oh, Maker. An unnatural white film covered his eyes. Alistair stumbled back, the core of his being protesting what he was seeing.

After a moment--a moment that seemed far longer--the convulsions stopped. His eyes closed. Riordan stepped forward and touched a finger to Garth's neck. He nodded at Duncan.

The Grey Warden leader gave no reaction except to turn to the next recruit. "Lorne, step forward."

The recruit took a deep breath and stiffened his spine before approaching Duncan. He accepted the chalice and drank without fear. Alistair hoped that when his time came, he would be able to act so definitively.

The blood affected Lorne almost instantly. Like Garth, he doubled over. His hands cradled his head as he screamed, a horrible keening wail that set the hair on Alistair's neck on end. When Lorne's eyes opened, they were white, like Garth's had been...but blood leaked from their corners. Another stream trickled from his nose. He gurgled, and more rushed from his mouth.

Riordan shook his head as Lorne fell to the ground, the blood pooling about him. Duncan looked down at the fallen recruit, and said softly, "I am sorry, Lorne."

Alistair wanted to vomit. Somehow, he managed not to, even when the recruit's body twitched a handful of times, even when the blood lapped at his boots.

"Alistair," Duncan said, holding out the chalice, "step forward."

He inhaled deeply, fortifying himself. "Better than the Chantry," he muttered. And drank.

The blood burned as it travelled down his throat, searing a path deep into his gut. He took a breath, then another--

And the real pain hit.

Fire roared through him. His blood felt like the lava that was rumored to heat Orzammar. It scorched him, everywhere, until he wanted to claw at his eyes, his skin, his brain, just to make it stop, please, Maker, _let it stop_.

He opened his mouth, then, and screamed until the blackness rushed up to claim him.

#

He dreamed.

It had to be a dream, because he was wearing golden plate armor, the type reserved for kings. Strange, but he wasn't uncomfortable in it. It felt...right, somehow. He walked through the corridors of Redcliffe Castle, the confidence and surety of self flowing through him as natural as wearing the armor.

Not that he'd ever be king. Arl Eamon had made it absolutely clear that Alistair was a commoner, despite his father's lineage. His mother had been only a star-struck maid, and Maric had never recognized him. Alistair's chances of taking the throne were...well, astronomical wasn't an overstatement. But this was a dream, and as far as dreams went, it wasn't bad. He might as well relax and enjoy the entertainment. Reality would intrude again soon enough.

He smiled as he walked into the main hall to see Eamon standing by the fire. The man's grey beard nearly masked his return grin, and he gave a gentle bow as Alistair approached. "Your Majesty," he said. "I hope your accommodations are to your liking?"

"I kind of miss the stables, Eamon." Alistair chuckled at the older man's startled look. "I jest, I jest. The suite is quite nice."

"And the Queen?"

_Queen? I have a Queen?_ His heart flipped, even as the part of him that was blissfully unaware of his dream state continued the conversation with Eamon. "She's resting comfortably. Thank you again for offering us a respite from the city. The quiet of the country will no doubt do her a world of good."

"We're honored to have you here for the birth of your child, Alistair." Eamon clapped a hand on his back.

A queen. A child on the way. Oh, yes, this dream was not bad at all.

He fell into an easy rhythm of camaraderie with the man who'd raised him, smiling, laughing, looking quietly into the fire as happy memories fell over him like a favorite childhood blanket. The part of him that knew this to be a dream was startled as the maid burst into the hall, urgency in every movement; the part that lived the dream accepted her appearance like it was foretold.

"Your Majesty," she gasped, "it's time."

He glanced at Eamon, then rushed out of the hall just steps behind the maid.

They wouldn't let him into the room, so he was left to pace by the door. Murmurs filtered through it; once, a shout. Eamon held him back with a gentle hand on his shoulder.

And then it was done.

The same maid reappeared, a wide smile on her face. "Your Majesty," she said, nearly breathless with joy, "come meet your daughter."

Daughter. Maker's breath, he had a daughter. His throat closed and tears burned his eyes as he stepped past the threshold into the bedchamber. Women fussed over his wife in the bed, but he only had eyes for the small bundle thrust into his arms.

"What will you name her?" the maid asked as Alistair stared, dumbstruck, at the swaddled babe.

"I--I don't know," he admitted, pushing back a corner of the blanket to see his child's face.

Twisted, blackened flesh greeted his gaze. Dead, empty eyes. Sharpened teeth.

_Darkspawn._

"No!" he screamed. His heart twisted. Broke. He shoved the thing out of his arms. It tumbled to the floor, where it wormed its way out of the swaddling clothes and crawled toward him.

A hand landed on his shoulder. He spun to face the emissary he'd killed in Lothering. Its black eyes bored into his and it leaned forward as if to deliver a secret.

"You are ours," it hissed. "_We...are...one._"

A wordless, guttural cry wrenched itself from Alistair's throat. He tore himself out of the dream.

It took him a few long moments of panting and near-panic to realize he wasn't in the bedchamber of his dreams. Light flickered beneath the door, revealing a small room with barely enough space for the bed and chest of drawers. He was alone. No darkspawn. No dream-wife. No would-be child.

Alone. As always.

He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, trying to force away the memories of the dream. It had been so real. He could still feel the weight of the armor on his body, the smell of the incense used in the birthing room. A sob hitched in his chest before he regained control of himself. Just a dream. A terrible, awful, soul-shattering dream, but nothing more than that.

He pushed himself to his feet and used the tepid water in the basin next to the bed to wash away the remainder of sleep. If a couple of stray tears blended into the water...well, there was no one around to see it.

He took a deep breath and opened the door.

Duncan rose from a chair facing the entrance to his room. His eyes held understanding and knowledge, but he said only, "Welcome, Alistair."


	6. Chapter 6: Brotherhood

**Brotherhood**

He met the rest of the Wardens at dinner the next day.

Duncan led him and Garth into the dining hall, to soaring applause and raucous catcalls. Ale flowed freely, as did the fine foods, and Alistair soon found himself singing a song he didn't know at the top of his lungs, to much encouragement and laughter. Even Duncan smiled widely, clearly amused by the ease with which Alistair settled into the group.

Maybe it was the half-dozen mugs of ale, but for the first time in his life, Alistair felt accepted. Welcome. Like maybe...maybe he'd found his place. He didn't feel like a misfit here. He might be a bastard, and a prince, and an almost-templar, but none of that mattered. He'd taken the Joining, and he'd survived. He was one of them.

It was an amazing feeling.

Over the next few days, he fell into an easy routine of sparring and drills in the morning, and chores in the afternoon. Thankfully his chores did not include scrubbing pots or mucking out stalls. Mostly they were administrative, learning about the Grey Wardens and their place in Ferelden, the history of the order, and the country itself. Education without religious flavoring was a new experience, one he greatly enjoyed.

On the third night after his Joining, the nightmare returned. Slightly different, but no less horrible.

He woke, bathed in icy sweat, to find Duncan sitting at his bedside. He gave Alistair a moment to collect his thoughts, then rose. "Come. We have much to discuss."

Alistair traded his night clothes for shirt and pants and followed the Commander to his office. Duncan offered him tea, which was really kind of odd, since he had the impression that the discussion they were about to have was big, and tea just didn't seem to be strong enough to go with it. But he accepted the mug and let the hot liquid soothe away the remnants of the dream.

Duncan settled himself behind his desk. "Being a Grey Warden means being able to sense the darkspawn. You know that already."

"Yes, you've said that before." Alistair took a sip of his tea. "Is that what the dreams are?"

"Exactly so. When we sleep, our natural mental barriers fade, letting the presence of the darkspawn into our minds without any filters," Duncan said. "Our minds then take that information, process it into something we recognize--a dream--and thus we experience these types of nightmares."

"Lovely." Alistair rubbed a hand over his face. "So I'm going to be haunted by these--these nightmares forever?"

"No, not forever, I'm afraid." Duncan held Alistair's gaze, and Alistair couldn't read the other man's eyes. "A Grey Warden's lifespan is limited by the taint. Your body fights the corruption, but eventually it will lose the battle."

"Eventually..." Alistair stared at him, the meaning of Duncan's words slowly seeping into his brain. "What do you mean, 'eventually'?"

"Grey Wardens live for roughly thirty years after their Joining," Duncan explained, his voice quiet. "Some more, some less. Over their lives, most Grey Wardens learn to block the darkspawn dreams, but when they return--and they inevitably do--the Grey Warden knows that his Calling is upon him. Tradition dictates that he journey for one last grand battle against the darkspawn in the Deep Roads."

"Wait." A smile played over Alistair's lips and he placed the half-empty mug on the Commander's desk. "You're joking. This is some kind of initiation thing, right? Scare the junior member so you can laugh and point?"

Duncan shook his head. "No, lad."

Alistair stared at him for a moment more, then launched to his feet. He strode away from the desk, a half-dozen steps, before turning to face Duncan once more. "You're saying--" His throat closed, choking off his words. "You're saying that I'm going to die? Maker's breath."

Duncan stood and walked around his desk to approach him. "Alistair--"

"How could you do this? I--I trusted you. And now you reveal that the wonderful concoction I drank, that could have killed me, is going to kill me anyway?" His fists tensed at his sides. He wanted to smash something--anything--to release this fear and anger and horrible, horrible sense of betrayal.

"Alistair." Duncan laid his hand on his shoulder. "Everyone--mage, templar, noble, commoner--dies. Any one of us could fall in battle against the darkspawn. As a templar, you would have faced death each time you hunted a mage. It doesn't matter who we are--death is assured. It isn't important how you die, but how you live."

Alistair shrugged off Duncan's hand and backed away. "Pretty it up however you like, Duncan. The fact remains that I am going to die. And you're the one who killed me."

He turned and strode out of the room without a backward glance.


	7. Chapter 7: Distractions

**Distractions**

The early summer sun beat down on Alistair's bare back as he sparred with the straw dummy in the training ring. His armor had been shed as the heat increased and lay in a pile in the dirt. Maker, did no breeze ever reach this far into the city? Sweat poured off him, stinging his eyes and making the grip on the hilt of his sword uncertain, but his mood begged for some kind of diversion. Anything to keep him from thinking of...that. What Duncan had told him.

Sparring with the dummy wasn't working, in that regard. His body moved in the repetitive, comfortable actions automatically, leaving his mind to wander, and think, and surmise, and fume.

With a grunt, he ran the dummy through, and straightened. It also didn't help that he'd heard that Cailan had returned from whatever diplomatic voyage he'd been on. He couldn't walk around a corner without wondering if he'd bump into his half-brother. Rationally, he knew it wasn't bloody likely that the King would be traipsing about the Grey Warden compound, but Alistair held no illusions about being the most rational of men.

What he needed was just to get out. Away. Not far, and not for long; he had a duty, and he understood duty all too well. But a break would be welcome.

The water in the barrel at the edge of the training ring was warm from the heat of the day, less than refreshing, but it washed away some of the sweat and grime. He shrugged into his undershirt and armor, and strapped his sword and shield to his back. Then he headed to the dining room. He'd discovered that there were always one or two Grey Wardens eating at any given hour of the day. He'd wondered at that, until the hunger pangs gripped him in the middle of the night on his second day after the Joining. By Andraste, he'd never felt so famished in his life, even during the growth spurts of his adolescent years. He'd rushed into the larder, grabbed whatever food he could find, and began stuffing his face indiscriminately. He didn't look up until someone cleared their throat, and just about died from embarrassment to see a handful of Wardens staring at him.

Then they'd laughed and clapped him on the back, and that was one more thing that made him one of them.

Gregor, the Anders with the massive beard, and Jon, a slim twig of a man, waved him over as he entered the dining room. Unsurprisingly, a tankard of ale sat in front of Gregor, half-empty. The man's constitution was legendary. One day, they'd get him drunk. One day.

"Hey, Alistair," Jon greeted him, smiling. "You look like something crawled up your arse."

Alistair smirked and shook his head. "You have quite the way with words, Jon."

"That he does," Gregor rumbled. "But he speaks the truth. What's the problem, lad?"

"I need to get out for a bit."

"A mite stir-crazy, yes?" Jon's smile grew. "You have coin?"

"A bit," Alistair admitted. "Fifty silvers or so."

"Excellent." The skinny man's eyes twinkled.

"Jon," Gregor started, but the smaller man held up a hand to silence him.

"Try the Pearl, lad. South of the Market District. There's a right amount of fun to be had there, I tell you."

"It's a tavern? With entertainment and whatnot?" That could be good, he decided.

"Oh, aye, lots of entertainment." Jon chuckled.

"All right, then." Alistair grinned. "Thanks."

Gregor groaned. "Just...don't ask for a surprise, boy."

Alistair's brows drew down, puzzled. "Okay. No surprises. Got it."

"Have fun!" Jon called as Alistair left the dining room.

#

The gates district of Denerim had nothing on the Market District. He froze at the entrance, half-tempted to seek refuge in the Chantry next to him. So many people. So much noise. It was so different, and yet...fascinating. He thought he might have been here once before--he vaguely recalled a trip to Arl Eamon's Denerim estate when he was very young--but everything seemed new to his eyes. He took a step forward, and another, and let the experience wash over him. People brushed past on all sides. After a moment, the cacophony began to separate into distinct sounds: merchants attempting to entice passersby; customers' voices raised in righteous indignation over prices; children's laughter as they raced about the common area; and the low hum of the Chant emanating from the squat Chantry behind him.

Wonderful. Absolutely wonderful.

He wandered around the market for awhile, pausing at stalls that captured his attention. There was the jeweller's, with rings and pendants and necklaces that made him think of his mother's amulet, the one he'd thrown at the wall in a fury when Eamon had announced he was to be sent to the Chantry. The only thing he had of his mother's, and he'd shattered it in a fit of childish rage. Idiot.

He moved on. A weaponsmith's stall caught his eye next, a rack of swords that glittered in the midday sun. With a smile, the smith gave him permission to heft one of the blades. Well-balanced, much better than the hand-me-down weapon he'd used for years--but too far out of his price range. With an apologetic shake of his head, Alistair returned the sword back to its place and decided it was time to find the tavern Jon had mentioned.

He headed south, out of the Market District. He could feel eyes on him as he made his way through the various alleys and back paths, but he saw no one threatening. Perhaps the watchers decided his sword and shield meant he would be more trouble than he was worth.

The Pearl was a well-kept establishment, at least from the outside. It looked clean, at any rate, the paint on its walls fresh, the shutters on its windows straight and prim. It even had a pair of flower pots on either side of the front door. Not bad. Not bad at all.

Alistair stepped inside, wondering if the entertainment Jon had spoken of would be a band of minstrels, or perhaps a troupe of dancers. That would be fun.

His feet froze on the other side of the threshold.

Breasts. Everywhere he looked, breasts. Dear Maker above. What was this place?

One of the owners of breasts sauntered up to him. She wore robes of some kind, dipping low enough in the front to leave little to the imagination. Dark, curly hair cascaded over one shoulder, moulding suggestively to her ample curves. A fingertip swept along his arm and she smiled, a welcoming, sultry smile of which he'd never seen the like.

Could one's head explode from a smile?

"Hello, handsome," she purred. "I've not seen you here before. New in town?"

"I, uh." Alistair swallowed. His brain stuck out its tongue at him and meandered off, while other...parts...began to pay attention. "I'm new, yes. To Denerim. Not to Ferelden, because I've, uh, lived here my entire life. Not _here_ here, of course, because I'm new, but..."

"Aren't you a sweetheart?" Her smile was a little warmer now, reaching her eyes. "And what brings you to Denerim?"

"Grey Wardens." He cleared his throat. "That is, I'm a Grey Warden."

"Oh." The sound was drawn out on a low sigh. "I've heard...things...about the Wardens."

"Really?" Alistair closed his eyes as his voice squeaked. Maker. "What kinds of things?"

"That your...stamina...is legendary," she said, leaning in. Her breath seared his cheek. "That you can go all night. That one woman is never, ever enough."

He was going to die. Right now, here. He was going to be struck down by the Maker for his sins. Okay, so, he hadn't done anything yet, but the Maker knew His children's minds, and there was no doubt where Alistair's was. At any moment, lightning was going to arc from the heavens.

"Ruby, who's this handsome lad you're fawning over?" A second woman, blonde, blue-eyed, swayed over to them. Her robes were just as revealing as Ruby's, showcasing porcelain skin with a smattering of freckles that dipped between...

"This, my lovely Opal, is a Grey Warden come to the Pearl for a bit of fun. Shall we see if the tales are true?"

"Oh, my. The ones about their appetites? Yes..." Opal's summer-sky eyes swept up and down. A perfectly pink tongue darted out to wet her lips. "Let's."

Yes. Dead. If the Maker didn't kill him, his heart would soon stop. No doubt.

"Girls, girls." A third woman approached, this one dressed a bit more demurely than the two currently hanging off Alistair's arms. She grinned crookedly, one eyebrow arched. "I appreciate your eagerness, but I do have a business to run. Welcome to the Pearl, lad, Denerim's finest house of...adventures. Can I interest you in either of these fine ladies? Or, perhaps..." Her smile grew. "Both?"

"I, uh." _You're a gentleman. This is not what good Chantry boys do--_

Yes, but he wasn't in the Chantry anymore, was he? And this would definitely be a distraction.

"How much?" _Maker forgive me._

"For you, lad, because I'm just as interested to see if the tales of Grey Wardens are true..." The proprietor winked. "Thirty silver for one, fifty for the two."

Thank the Maker he didn't try to haggle for that sword. He reached for his coin purse...

It wasn't there.

"What the..." He patted his armor, but no, he wouldn't have stashed it elsewhere. "I was pickpocketed!"

"Blast it," Ruby said, pushing away from him.

"Next time, lad." The proprietor shook her head and walked away.

Opal leaned in and brushed her lips to his cheek. "Too bad," she whispered. "Come back, though, and look me up."

Alistair watched the two women sashay away in search of other patrons. He turned, sighing, and left the Pearl. Outside, he looked up at the clouds wafting across the clear blue sky.

"I get it, I get it," he muttered. "Thank you for holding off on the lightning."


	8. Chapter 8: Differently

**Differently**

The next day, Duncan summoned the order into the grand hall at mid-morning. Riordan stood at the head of the room beside Ferelden's Commander as the two dozen Wardens arranged themselves in lines before the two senior members.

"I've spent the last few days looking over bits and pieces of news we've received from the south," Duncan began. "We've reports of darkspawn attacks from human farmholds, and the Chasind and Dalish have spread word of increased activity as well. As Alistair and I travelled from Redcliffe, past Lothering, I was able to sense a large group of darkspawn far to the south, possibly as far as the Kocari Wilds. Something is afoot."

"Surely...not a Blight?" Jon queried with a slight shake of his head.

"No, my friend," Riordan said. "We will all know should a Blight be upon us. We would hear the archdemon."

Alistair's shoulders tensed. Hearing the archdemon didn't seem like a good thing. Seeing darkspawn in his dreams was bad enough. But a giant, evil dragon? No, thank you.

"Riordan will travel back to Orlais with what little news we have," Duncan said.

The Orlesian Warden nodded. "We will begin preparations to help Ferelden, should it be required."

"Meanwhile, we will discover what is happening in the Wilds. Jon, you will take Erik, Taramel, Lucas, and Declan in one team," Duncan instructed. "I will take Gregor, Tate, Stephen, Felix, and Garth in the other. We leave in an hour. Dismissed."

Alistair pushed through the retreating Wardens to reach the front of the room. "Duncan," he said through a gritted jaw, "might I have a word?"

"Certainly. Safe journeys, Riordan," the Commander said, clapping the Orlesian on the shoulder.

"Maker watch over you, my friend. Farewell."

Alistair gave the senior Warden a distracted smile and slight bow before turning to Duncan. "You're taking Garth? Not me?"

"I've seen what you can do, Alistair. Garth was brought here by Riordan, and I have yet to see him in action. I have no doubt that Riordan chose well, but I like to observe our new members in battle when I can."

Alistair frowned. "And that's it? That's the reason?"

"Should there be another?" Duncan arched a brow.

The younger man rubbed a hand through his short hair. "I just thought...you were keeping me out of the fighting on purpose, that's all. Treating me differently."

The accusation hung in the air for a moment before Duncan spoke again. "No, lad. That's not it."

"Good." Alistair took a breath and let some of the tension fall away. "Good."

The Commander laid a hand on his shoulder. "Don't worry, lad. Your time will come." He squeezed Alistair's shoulder briefly, then started for the door.

"Right. Duncan..." Alistair shook his head as the words he wanted to say, needed to say, wouldn't come. "About what I said, before...the other night...I'm sorry. I was angry, and I--"

"No harm done. We've all been through it, Alistair."

"Yes, I know. It can't be easy, having to share that news with new members," he said, softly. "For what it's worth, this is still far, far better than the Chantry."

Duncan's serious face cracked into a grin and he chuckled. "I'm relieved to hear it."

Alistair returned his smile. "Maker watch over you, Duncan." 

The Commander inclined his head. "Maker watch over us all."

#

He'd thought that running into Cailan could be awkward? Awkward didn't begin to describe it.

The King stood on the estate's steps. Alistair remained, frozen, just inside the door, his companion--Kirk, another Warden about his age--at his side. Of all the things he could have expected to see as he pulled the door open, on his way to purchase that sword he'd seen in the Market, his half-brother wasn't one of them. He'd nearly convinced himself that he would never meet up with the King, accidentally or otherwise.

Oh, the Maker was surely laughing at him now. Or maybe this was punishment for his ill-advised trip to the Pearl.

Cailan was the first to recover, forcing the shock out of his expression and pasting on something of a placid smile. "You're one of the new Wardens, then?"

Alistair snapped his gaping mouth shut. Kirk smiled and dipped his head, stepping forward when it was obvious Alistair wasn't going to answer. "Yes, your Majesty," he said smoothly, casting a look at Alistair. Probably thought the new Warden was star-struck or some nonsense, Alistair thought, but he couldn't speak regardless. "This is--"

"Alistair. Yes, I know. I'd...heard." His smile widened. "What an honor for you, being one of the fabled Grey Wardens! I'm pleased to hear your order is growing. Tell me: is Duncan about?"

And...dismissed. This time in favor of a person rather than a room full of swords, not that it mattered. Disappointment shuddered through Alistair, but he kept it from appearing on his face.

Again, Kirk answered. "No, your Majesty. He left this morning. Should I take you to the Lieutenant?"

"No, no, there's no need. I'm sure he's busy enough taking care of things in Duncan's absence without worrying about humouring me." Cailan chuckled. "Though perhaps you could ask him to see me when he has a moment?"

"Certainly. Good day to you, your Majesty." Kirk crossed his arms over his chest and bent slightly at the waist. Alistair mimicked the movement, his limbs stiff.

"What in Andraste's name is wrong with you?" Kirk hissed as the King strode away, his guards falling into place behind him. "The King pays us a visit, and knows your name, and you stand there like an idiot?"

Alistair schooled his expression to show nothing, and shrugged. "I've never seen a King before," he said.

"Maker's breath, but you are an ass. Come on, then." Kirk grabbed Alistair's arm and shoved him out the door. "Let's go get that bloody sword before the Empress of Orlais shows up."

#

More than a month passed before the scouting parties returned. Alistair kept himself busy--sparring in the ring with the other Wardens who'd been left behind, or studying in the library, or resuming the daily meditations that had marked his time in the Chantry. Not that he wanted the reminder, but the time alone with his thoughts was necessary to maintain the mental discipline required to use his templar talents. Surprisingly enough, the darkspawn dreams he'd suffered through nearly every night since his Joining faded almost immediately once he revisited the familiar routine. A welcome bonus to the one activity from the Chantry that he'd actually enjoyed.

It was during one of his meditations in the compound's courtyard that he heard the shouts of welcome. He returned to awareness slowly, then rose and stretched. He made his way to the estate's front entrance, a smile blooming on his lips. Maker, it would be good to see Duncan again. The Commander wasn't a friend, not really; Alistair knew far too little of the man to consider him such. But he respected the older Warden, and, beyond that, the compound just didn't feel the same without him there.

The happy greeting he'd been prepared to voice as he walked into the front hall died in his throat. It took only a few glances at the Wardens gathered there to know that something was up. Something bad.

"What, let me guess." Alistair crossed his arms over his chest. "You found two archdemons instead of one."

"Shut your trap, boy," Jon snapped, his eyes sparking.

Duncan laid a hand on Jon's arm, holding him back. "Enough. Both of you." He turned disappointed eyes on Alistair. "We lost Garth and Erik."

Andraste's ass. "Duncan, I--"

The Commander held up a hand. "I think we could all use some free moments, followed by a pint or two. Or five."

There were grunts and mumbles of agreement as the travel-worn Wardens moved further into the estate. Alistair watched them go, his fingers digging into his biceps. When would he ever learn to keep his fool mouth closed? He rolled his eyes skyward, then trailed after Duncan.

He found the Commander in his office. Duncan's dark skin seemed less robust, his eyes duller than they'd been a short month ago. He looked...old, Alistair realized with a start. He tapped the doorframe and waited to enter until the Commander's eyes met his.

"I apologize for my comments earlier, Duncan," he said, stopping in front of the desk. "They were...inappropriate."

"It's fine, Alistair." The Commander waved a hand. "You couldn't have known. It was just you...being you."

"Um, thanks." Alistair frowned. "I think."

"Tell me: has your sleep improved?"

"Immensely. Apparently templar training is good for something other than smiting mages. Who knew?"

Duncan smiled, but the expression didn't quite reach his eyes. "I've--" He broke off, then shook his head. "I've started having the dreams again."

Alistair's breath caught in his throat. "But...doesn't that mean--"

"My Calling grows near." His smile grew rueful. "I thought I'd have a few years yet, but I suppose the Maker has other plans for me."

It felt like someone had punched him in the gut. He couldn't quite take a deep breath. "Maker, Duncan...I'm so sorry."

"Don't be, lad. I'm not heading off to the Deep Roads tomorrow. There will come a time that I will...need...to go, but now is not it." He leaned back in his chair. "If you don't mind, I'd like a few moments before we gather in the dining hall."

"O-of course," Alistair stammered. "I'll see you there." He stepped back, and headed for the door.

"Alistair."

The ex-templar paused in his retreat. "Yes, Duncan?"

"Like you, I would prefer not to be treated differently."

Alistair nodded. "Understood."


	9. Chapter 9: Destiny Whispers

**Destiny Whispers**

Sunlight speared Alistair's eyes. He blinked, then wished he hadn't. His room came into view blearily, unfocused, and the oddity of it set his brain to thundering in protest. Why in the Maker's name did it feel like someone was jumping on his head? No, not jumping on it; jumping in it, bouncing off the inside of his skull. He groaned and squeezed his eyes shut again. Had there been a battle of some kind? Was he wounded?

Fuzzy memories surfaced. Dinner with the Grey Wardens, a somber affair as everyone felt the loss of Garth and Erik. And then...

"Oh, I didn't." He moaned and shoved his face into his pillow. His thoughts weren't totally clear yet--Maker knew if they ever would be again--but he recalled _that_ plainly.

At some point last evening, after a round or two of ale had already flowed, Alistair had remarked that although Gregor was always drinking, he never got drunk. Bolstered by encouragement from the other Wardens, he'd smirked and suggested that...oh, holy Maker, had he really suggested that Anders must be like cows, with a separate stomach devoted totally to ale drinking?

It was a wonder that he'd woken up at all instead of being bashed to the Maker's side by Gregor's massive warhammer.

Gregor had frowned and roared across the hall that he would drink one pint for every half-pint the rest of the Wardens drank. And the game was on.

Everything got rather muddled after that.

The estate was relatively quiet. No one seemed to have any need for him at the moment, anyway. Thank Andraste for small favors. No point in dragging his aching head out of bed, then. Alistair pulled the blanket up over his face to block the strengthening sun and drifted back to sleep.

#

He stood in the Deep Roads, surrounded by darkspawn, but he wasn't afraid. None of them seemed to notice him. Instinct shouted at him to attack, but he wasn't an idiot, for all that he acted like one sometimes. Starting a fight here, now, would be suicide. He might as well run himself through and save the darkspawn the trouble.

Funny that he knew he was in the ancient dwarven tunnels. He'd never seen them before, but he recognized them instantly. Then again, where else would this be? He was underground, rough stone arching above him, in the midst of a darkspawn swarm--the Deep Roads seemed the most likely candidate for his location.

And still the darkspawn did not heed his presence.

Alistair took a step forward, then another when none of the creatures reacted. They all seemed to be focused on something in front of them, leaning forward like flowers yearning for sunlight. He found himself craning his neck too, trying to catch a glimpse of whatever it was that had enthralled them so.

Something big exploded upwards. Alistair stumbled back a step as his eyes tried to make sense of what he was seeing. Wings, teeth, talons, tail...

Maker. A dragon.

It thudded to the ground in front of him, crushing the darkspawn that stood there. The creatures didn't move, didn't scream; they simply allowed themselves to be stepped upon without protest. Alistair staggered back a handful of steps, and reached for his sword...but his sword and shield weren't there.

The dragon shifted forward, its veiny aubergine skin pulsing. It brought its head down and angled it so one soulless eye looked upon the ex-templar standing before it. The eye narrowed, almost like...almost like it recognized him.

Alistair's heart and lungs refused to work. His feet wouldn't move. The dragon turned its head again, and roared at him...a horrible, ungodly noise that filled his brain until he couldn't think. It reached forward--

He jolted upright, screaming.

"Alistair! Lad, what is it?"

He scrambled back across the bed, away from the voice, until his back met the wall. His heart pounded against his breastbone; his breaths wouldn't slow. Incoherent prayers fumbled through his mind.

"Alistair! Focus!"

He blinked and the vision of the dragon faded. "Duncan?"

"Yes, lad. Are you all right?" The dark-skinned man's brows drew into a frown.

"I--" Alistair shook his head. It still ached, though from the hangover or the awfulness of the dream, he didn't know. "What are you doing here?"

"When you didn't report for morning sparring, I decided to seek you out. Sleeping in, I see." A grin tugged at one corner of the Commander's mouth. "I thought for a moment that you had...someone...in your room."

"What? No..." Alistair closed his eyes and covered his face with his hands. "Was I the only one, then?"

"The only one still abed? I believe so. Lad, whatever possessed you to challenge Gregor to a drinking game?"

"No, no...not that. Duncan, I--" He scrubbed his hands over his face. "I dreamt of a dragon."

The older man froze. "A dragon," he repeated, his voice flat.

"Maker," Alistair whispered. "It was more than a dragon, I know it was. I was in the Deep Roads, surrounded by darkspawn, and it just erupted out of a crevasse, and...Andraste's ashes, Duncan. It looked at me. Like it knew me." He paused and regarded the Commander, trying to read the other man's expression. "It was an archdemon, wasn't it? I--I 'heard' it."

He expected the Commander to tell him that his dream was just that: a dream that meant nothing. Instead, Duncan closed his eyes and sighed. "Maker have mercy on us."

"Tell me I didn't dream of an archdemon," Alistair said.

"I wish I could, Alistair." Duncan opened his eyes again and took a deep breath. "I'd feared as much when we got close enough to the horde to sense its size, but, I'd hoped...no matter. We must warn the King."

"Based on my dream?" Alistair shook his head. "What if it's just my imagination?"

"We'll know by tomorrow, won't we?"

"By tomorrow..." The ex-templar frowned, then it dawned on him what Duncan meant. "If it's an archdemon, the others will dream tonight, won't they?"

"Just so. I'll ask for an audience with the King tomorrow. Either I'll have news to share about an unusually large darkspawn raid," Duncan said, "or news that a Blight has been unleashed upon Ferelden."


	10. Chapter 10: Comfort

**Comfort**

Alistair sat upon his bed, looking out the window, as shouts rumbled through the estate's dark corridors. He hadn't allowed himself to succumb to sleep, and he wasn't too proud to admit it was because the thought of revisiting the archdemon terrified him.

He grimaced at the stars. On the one hand, Alistair supposed the screams from his fellow Wardens meant he wasn't crazy. On the other...

Maker. A Blight.

He remained motionless throughout the night, absorbed in dark thoughts. When the sky began to lighten, he stirred, dressed, and left the compound.

He was only slightly surprised that his feet led him to the Chantry in the Market District. He paused outside of the squat building for a moment. A few of the lay sisters were already up and active, tending the gardens and offering food to the unfortunate souls who'd sought shelter on the Chantry's grounds for the night. He didn't resist the urge to seek out the comfort of the Chantry for himself.

He wasn't a particularly religious man; he never had been, a fact all of the brothers and sisters of the Redcliffe Chantry knew. More than one had tried to make him see the error of his ways, but he'd held them off with a smart comment or two--or ten--until they threw their hands up in submission and left him alone. But not wanting to devote his life to the Chantry didn't mean he didn't believe in the Maker. He did, absolutely. And right now, he needed some reassurance.

"Blessings of Andraste to you, lad," one of the revered mothers greeted him, her hands clasped in front of her. "What is it that you seek?"

Alistair glanced around the interior of the building, the familiar scents of old books and the easy hum of the Chant of Light washing over him. "I--I'm not sure, your reverence," he admitted sheepishly. "Could I...just sit for a time? Would that be all right?"

"Of course, child." She nodded, a gentle smile playing over her lips. She stayed by his side as he settled himself onto one of the benches arranged before the statue of Andraste with its holy flame, but Alistair didn't mind. It was better than being alone.

"What does the Chant say about darkspawn?" he asked suddenly. "I mean, I studied it, but it's been some time..."

"Darkspawn? Threnodies is the Canticle that speaks of the magisters' steps into the Golden City and the Maker's punishment." The revered mother frowned. Then she closed her eyes and recited:

_There in the depths of the earth they dwelled,_

_Spreading their taint as a plague, growing in number_

_Until they were a multitude._

_And together they searched ever deeper_

_Until they found their prize,_

_Their god, their betrayer._

Alistair nodded in recognition of the verse. He'd heard it before, but since joining the Grey Wardens, he'd avoided re-reading the Chant of Light. It had been rather a relief to be able to not study it, and he hadn't realized it might be a good idea to review the sections that dealt with the darkspawn.

"Is that what troubles you, child?" The revered mother sat on the bench beside him, smoothing her skirts with an absent hand. "Some worry about the darkspawn?"

"You could say that." Alistair gave her a crooked grin. "I'm a Grey Warden. New to the order, in fact."

"Ah, I understand." She nodded, her eyes on Andraste's stone image before them. "I can see why thoughts of those tainted creatures would weigh heavily on your mind."

One tainted creature in particular, but Alistair kept that news to himself. Ferelden would know soon enough that a Blight was upon them, and he wouldn't be the one to spread the word.

"Be comforted that you do the Maker's work, child," the revered mother said. "He has cast His gaze upon you, chosen you, for this most terrible of tasks. But He would not have done so if you were not prepared for it."

"I--" Alistair blinked and shook his head. "Thank you, your reverence. That helps. I'm not sure why," he said with a frown, "but it does."

"I will leave you to your ruminations, then. Maker watch over you, child. If you would like to receive His blessing before you leave, please seek me out." She rose and wandered away.

Alistair remained on the bench, lost in thought. After a time, he realized that the revered mother's words truly had helped. The debilitating terror that had gripped him the day before and hung on like a determined mabari had finally released him. He was scared, certainly; anyone with half a brain would be. But he felt...almost ready. More able to handle the challenge looming before him, at any rate.

He hoped.

He stood and proceeded to seek out the revered mother for the promised blessing. In one corner of the Chantry he came across a desk covered with scrolls. He frowned. The Chantry in Redcliffe hadn't had anything like this. He stopped in front of the desk and patiently waited for the sister ensconced behind it to look up.

"Aye, what?" she said after a moment. "Oh. Er, I mean, blessings upon you."

Alistair smiled. "I won't tell on you, don't worry."

She returned his smile. "I'm sorry. I was a little...caught up."

"So I see. What is all of this?" He waved a hand at the papers scattered about.

"The Archives," she said, a hint of pride in her voice. "I work with the Archivist to keep all of the records organized."

"Records of...?" Alistair raised a brow.

"Births, deaths, marriages, mostly," she said. "For all of Ferelden. Isn't it marvellous?"

"Uh, sure. If you say so." He crossed his arms over his chest. "So you'd have a record of my birth, then?"

"Indeed we would, if you were born in Ferelden in the last hundred years. Which, uh...I'm assuming you were," she amended. "Would you like me to look it up?"

Alistair shrugged. "Why not?"

"I'll need your mother's name and the location of your birth," the sister said, rising. "And the year helps, as well, but I can always make a guess."

"I was born at Redcliffe Castle," Alistair said. He trailed after the sister as she stepped into the stacks of scrolls that extended deeper into the Chantry building. "My mother's name was Evelyn Carthy."

"Pretty," the sister commented absently. "Redclifffe, is it? Let's see. Year?"

"Around Ten Dragon Age," Alistair supplied.

"Excellent. Give me a moment..."

Alistair leaned against one of the shelves as the sister searched. Seeing his name in print would be a novelty, but if she took much longer, he'd have to abandon the impulse. The Wardens would be rising soon, if they hadn't already, and would no doubt be wondering where he'd gone to.

"You're sure you were born in Redcliffe?" The sister's head poked around the shelf.

"Positive."

"I don't suppose your name is Goldanna?"

"What?" A startled laugh jerked out of Alistair's throat as he straightened. "No. Why?"

"Well...I found your mother's records. But there's no son listed under her name. It doesn't mean anything," she rushed on. "Sometimes the records get misplaced, or never get sent to us, or something like that. I did find a daughter named Goldanna, though."

"A what?" Alistair leaned a hand on the shelf, steadying himself. "A daughter?"

"It says so right here." The sister handed him the record. At the top was his mother's name. Beneath it was the name "Goldanna", with the location of her birth--Redcliffe--and the year, near the beginning of the Dragon Age.

"Holy Maker," he whispered. "I have a sister."


	11. Chapter 11: Preparations

**Preparations**

Alistair stood behind Duncan as the Commander seated himself before the King's desk. Every muscle in his body seemed to have seized and he held himself rigidly, not meeting his half-brother's gaze. Apparently as the junior member of the Ferelden Wardens, he was obligated to accompany Duncan to meetings as a messenger, if necessary. Lucky him.

"Duncan!" Cailan greeted the older man with a warm smile. "I'm glad to see you made it back in one piece. What news do you bring?"

"Dire news, I'm afraid, your Majesty," Duncan said with a slight nod. "A darkspawn horde gathers in the south, within the Kocari Wilds."

"You jest, surely." Cailan's smile grew and he leaned back in his chair.

"If only, your Majesty. We had two teams scouting at the edges of the Wilds, and there is no doubt that this is indeed a horde. A large one."

"Truly? Like in the tales?" Something glittered in Cailan's eyes, a strange fire. Glory-hunting idiot. Alistair's lips twisted as he kept the thought to himself.

"I suppose, your Majesty. There is a good possibility that this is the start of a Blight."

"Just like the old tales then!" Cailan exclaimed. "Glorious. You saw the archdemon?"

"Not...exactly, your Majesty," Duncan admitted. "But that means little. It could be biding its time, waiting until its forces on the surface are strong enough before it appears."

"That would be the prudent course of action, wouldn't it?" Cailan raised a brow. "What counsel do the Grey Wardens offer, Duncan? I would be glad to hear it."

"Ferelden's armies should be gathered, your Majesty. I would also recommend contacting any international allies that Ferelden might have." Duncan hesitated only briefly before continuing. "If we are to defeat this Blight before it can decimate Ferelden and extend into other nations, we will need help. I will call on our brothers in Orlais for assistance."

Some of the light in Cailan's gaze dimmed. "That will not go over well with Loghain, I'm afraid."

"But it is necessary, your Majesty." Duncan crossed his arms. "If this is a Blight--and I believe with every fiber of my being that it is--it is a threat to the entire world. I cannot emphasize this enough. We must put aside our differences and seek out assistance from whoever can provide it."

Cailan chuckled. "Oh, you don't need to convince me, Duncan! I've read enough history books to understand what a Blight means and what it can do. I will begin preparing our forces immediately. Let me summon Teyrn Loghain, and we can discuss our strategy."

"An excellent plan, your Majesty." Duncan looked over his shoulder. "Alistair, will you tell Lieutenant Cedric to prepare a missive to the Wardens of Orlais?"

Alistair bowed slightly at the waist, his arms crossed over his chest. "Certainly, Duncan."

He left the room, feeling a bit like he'd escaped a jail cell. Hopefully they'd have new members soon, so he'd be able to pass on his messenger duties. That was two too many meetings with his brother.

#

Preparing an army for war takes time. In Ferelden, the King had his own royal army numbering in the thousands, but each of the teyrnirs had their own soldiers, and the bannorn as well. Organizing everyone into a cohesive force was not something that had been done in recent memory. Maric's army that had routed the Orlesians thirty years ago had been little more than a large band of misfits and farmers, with enough actual soldiers peppered through it to make winning less of a long shot. But marshalling actual armies to march to war? It was a new experience for many.

Alistair could tell that the delays in readying the troops wore heavily on Duncan. As a month passed and stretched into two, the Commander sent out regular patrols to help combat the darkspawn raids in the south. The horde itself hadn't acted, but smaller groups of darkspawn were getting increasingly daring, attacking large farmsteads and one or two villages. Each sortie lasted for roughly a fortnight, after which time the team would return and fresh Wardens would depart in their place.

Alistair had yet to serve on one of the patrols, and he was beginning to wonder why. But he kept his mouth closed for once. Duncan had enough to concern himself without adding any childish accusations of protectionism to the list.

Instead, he threw himself into training. Both to distract himself from the coming battle--no one had really talked about it yet, but it loomed over the Wardens' compound like a shadow--and to keep himself from obsessing about his sister.

He could scarcely believe it. A sister. He tried to squash the tiny kernel of hope in his chest, but it refused to die. Maybe...maybe she would be the one to accept him, like his father and brother never had. Maybe he'd finally have the chance to have a real family. Would she be proud of him?

The archivist's assistant at the Chantry had suggested that the Goldanna in the records might be the same one who worked as a washerwoman in the Market District, so he'd done some checking. It appeared that she was. Every time he thought about seeing her, though, he balked. Maker, what could he say? _Hi, I'm your secret brother who happens to be a bastard prince; would you mind being my family?_

The thought of writing her a letter was just as awkward. He'd started half a dozen times, only to toss the paper into the fire. He crushed the seventh attempt in his hand, and it met the same fate as the others. Maybe he should just give up on the idea. She was living her own life, and he had his now. He already had a family, of a sort; the Wardens certainly understood him far better than anyone else in his life had. They'd welcomed him without reservation, laughing at his jokes instead of chiding him for them, and his skills in battle did seem to be appreciated, even if Duncan hadn't yet assigned him to a patrol. Maybe...maybe it would be best just to leave this Goldanna alone.

"Feeding the fire, I see," Duncan said as he stepped into the library, amusement coloring his voice.

"Er..." Alistair gave him a crooked grin. "I suppose so."

"Penning a ballad, perhaps? Not turning out as you'd like?"

Alistair chuckled. "Nothing so grand. Just...a letter."

"Ah." The Commander nodded and settled into a leather chair near Alistair's desk, his eyes on the fire. "The armies march for the ruins of Ostagar at first light. Teyrn Loghain and the King have decided that is where we will battle the horde."

"Finally," Alistair breathed. He laid the pen on the desk. "We'll be accompanying them, I assume."

"Cedric will lead the Wardens alongside the King's army. I will not be with you."

Alistair's stomach clenched. "Duncan, you're not--"

The Commander shook his head with a smile. "No, lad, it's not my time yet. I'll meet you in Ostagar, but I need to seek out new recruits. We need them desperately. I've heard some news of a rather talented young woman in Highever by the name of Bryn, though I'm not sure her father will acquiesce to her recruitment."

"You allow women in the Wardens?"

"If they have the skill and the mettle to fight the darkspawn, certainly."

"Oh," Alistair said. "It's just...there aren't any right now."

"Not in Ferelden, no. Our numbers are so small, it's not surprising." Duncan shrugged. "If you're curious, there are pictures in the dining hall of some of the Wardens of old. I believe you'll find some women amongst them."

"Fair enough." Alistair leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. "So, why are you concerned about gaining her father's permission? Can't you just conscript her?"

"Conscripting the nobility often has dire consequences, my boy," Duncan replied. "She's the youngest child of Teyrn Cousland."

Alistair raised his brows. "I can see where that might be problematic. We can't all be bastards that the family would rather ignore, right?"

A laugh jolted past Duncan's lips. "Just so, lad. Just so."

The silence stretched between the two men, not uncomfortably. After a few moments, Alistair spoke, his voice soft. "Duncan, you once asked what I wanted out of life."

"I recall," the Commander said.

Alistair's eyes flicked to the older man's stoic face, then back to the fire. "You were the first person to ever bother to ask me that, and I--I wanted to thank you. And to tell you I've figured it out."

"And what is it that you want out of life, Alistair?" Duncan smiled, his eyes crinkling.

The ex-templar returned the Commander's grin. "To be a Grey Warden, of course."

Duncan rose and clapped a hand to Alistair's back. "You'll do fine, lad. You'll do just fine."


End file.
